I have a broken sail and a roaring sea.
My Herculean muscles
And this feeble oar.

An endless struggle.
And a futile resistance.

After a hundred strangled pleasures
A sweet sigh of relief.
Till the next gush of a devastating storm arrives…

Beyond these
Beyond all these… there lives someone.
For whom I bleed. Everyday.
I fight a knife that I cannot see.
My wounds get deeper and deeper.
I bleed, I bleed and I fight again.
Too tired, too drained
I make love with Death.

I could touch you
If I just stretched my hand.

I could smell you
If I just took a breath.

I had you all around me
So much of you
That I couldn’t kiss you.

Once upon a time there lived a boy called Obel
Who dreamed of getting a Nobel
So, he started on his journey
On his way he met Roni
And his path was no longer stony.
But this boy was a bit loony
So, he kept saying he doesn’t love Roni
This, to Roni, sounded very phony.
Then came the twist in the tale
There was this “intelligent” male
The male was Sanskrit and drank a lot of rum
He loved Roni more than his mum
He proposed to this little miss
But the blunder was he asked for a kiss.
Obel, who was in a lot of pain
Now, was back in form again.
The male avoided Roni and Obel
And in the process got the Nobel.
As for the little boy called Obel
Who had always dreamt of getting a Nobel
He sadly met a certain Bhaskar
And instead of a Nobel, he got an Oscar.

There was this boy called Obelisk
Whose life was like a compact disc.
He thought that dreams were black and white,
And on this, with Neeraja he had a fight.

Our hero was eating a biscuit,
And so was Obelisk,
Since both of them are the same,
This rhyme is very lame.

Obelisk thinks of what people say,
And interprets it in his own way,
And this makes him happy and gay,
Of which, happiness, tolerate we may.

I hope he gets some sense,
And stops saying the word “depends”,
But then, I wonder what he will say,
Because, ‘depends’ is his only way.

One drop is what it takes
to fall, into the inert pool
of memories and stir therin,
ripples of thought to cascade into waves,

For quiet’s redemption…

When the chalice trembles full
with the crimson fire of blood,
when dying eyes gather lust at sight
of the nectar of the immortals,

One drop is what it takes
of hemlock from morgul vales,
to sour the potion beyond form -
from elixir to hell’s froth,

For life’s breath…

When eleven eyes are held still by will
and the twelfth shines keen,
fixing in its terrible beam the cloud
beyond which lies the brightest star.

One drop is what it takes
in the mind’s poise from its high seat,
to cut focus to bone’s white
and to cast that sight into red abyss,

For wisdom’s price…

When the face streams pure and fair
and the eyes grow dark and fond,
when the full lips with them curve
the beholding heart in helpless plight.

One drop is what it takes
of covetal to welt the soft visage,
and taunt the moons of a moments past
to hollow sockets of ringing mockery,

For beauty’s delight…

And when the dusk clouds gather around,
when the doom bells sway without peal,
when the last spark leaves the eyes,
which even to death become blind,

One drop is what it takes
of faith to stand the crushing void,
and rouse the soul, from the claw of nought -
to battle, to life, and to death,

For hope’s rejoice.